by Tanya Aldred
3rd Test, Trent Bridge
Thursday, August 2, 2001

This is no time for slacking. It'll be business as usual at Trent Bridge, Steve Waugh had said, and by the time the London train drew into Nottingham station three-quarters of an hour late, England's supporters had pulled out the hangdog look that they perfected in Mike Atherton's first administration.

Two balls into the day, hangdog turned woeful. Atherton was trudging back to the pavilion, caught off the arm-guard and the inevitable McGrath. Shoulders drooped, picnics were kicked, but it was a bit too early in the morning for any really satisfyingly filthy language. A lanky superman queued for a bacon butty, but any confidence that England had even ordinary human powers was fading fast.

The first rain fell shortly after Butcher. "It's only effing drizzle mate," said the man in the C'mon Aussie T-shirt as the English trooped past him, making a bee-line for the Trent Bridge tavern whose gates stood invitingly open. They were too thirsty to notice Nasser Hussain's silver S-type Jag as they trooped past. Or maybe too depressed to care.

Trent Bridge has none of the grandeur of Lord's, none of that in-built pomp which can hypnotise a player. But it is pretty and friendly. And when the action spices up, the crowd really get going.

As lunch approached, Trescothick got them going. With a flick of the wrists, a crack of the bat and a twitch of those powerful forearms. There were nine fours, every one of them saying "Take that, you baggy-green villains", and the crowd lapped it up. Even Gilchrist and the slips applauded when he got to his fifty. Though in these Blair-Buchanan days, that probably had a spin all of its own.

Tanya Aldred is assistant editor of Wisden.com.

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